


day to night to morning (keep with me in the moment)

by betakids



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Ancap Doesn't Pay Nazi to Have Fulfilling Marathon Style Sex With Him While Wearing A Dress, Friends With Benefits, Gratuitous Thirsting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 10:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betakids/pseuds/betakids
Summary: There’s a problem in the Identitarian’s pants, and that problem’s name is Ancap.(Or, five times the rightists have sex, and around ten times they don’t.)
Relationships: Anarcho-Capitalist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), Right unity
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insert usual disclaimer for nazi's misgendering and mentions of childwives

In retrospect, the embarrassing thing about Nazi’s arrangement with Ancap wasn’t so much the clandestine _no-homo_ ’s traded over handjobs in the dark corners of the house or the simple fact of another man’s tongue in his mouth, but rather how quickly he had let it get out of control. 

_Because this_ , he thinks, stretching out the ache in his lower back from their last encounter on a goddamn yoga mat like he’s the goddamn Progressive, _is getting fucking absurd._

He tries not to consider the implications as he pushes himself into downward dog. Or, at least, willfully ignores them while blood rushes ever so slightly to his head. Over the last few months, Nazi has become uncomfortably familiar with taking small hits to his dignity. 

He supposes it started innocently enough, with the type of vaguely homoerotic, half-joking banter that reeked of locker rooms and boarding schools. Lots of claps on the shoulder and jostling on the couch. _Leftists getting you down?_ and other friendly quips. Beating each other off, for convenience’s sake, for lack of women. He wonders if there was a specific moment that Ancap decided he wanted to fuck him, and if he should have seen it coming. Maybe he should have known there would eventually be a problem. 

Ancap has never been good at enjoying things in moderation. Sex is no exception. 

(Neither, apparently, is Nazi.) 

* * *

So, Nazi makes for even more miserable company than he usually does. 

He takes up skulking around different parts of the house, pacing in circles, and muttering under his breath about Ayn Rand and that stupid goddamn fedora and his many midnight convenience store runs for ten-packs of condoms that only seem to come in obnoxious candy-colored medleys of flavors like pineapple, strawberry, or once, memorably, _passionfruit._ He doesn’t think there’s any tangible difference between _Thintensity Magnum BareSkin Non-Latex_ and _Double Ecstasy XL_ _with_ _Ultra Smooth Spermicidal Lubricant,_ but he resents the fact that he has had to contemplate whether or not there _might_ be, examining the fine print on the boxes in between the aisles. He’s gone as far as to start douching, now. Semi-regularly. 

He thinks he might be ideologically obligated to toss himself off the roof. 

Instead, he settles for more grumbling as he fishes around in the fridge for one of the fancy lunches Ancap keeps leaving him, cheerfully marked by bright yellow post-it notes and copious amounts of smiley faces. Nazi still can’t tell if the lunches are part of some sort of elaborate homosexual mating ritual he hasn’t yet sunk low enough to understand, but they’re definitely _suspicious_. He’s already been fucked. He doesn’t need to be plied with hors d’oeuvres. 

He’s so preoccupied with squinting at a cracker and wondering whether or not Ancap would have the balls to actually drug him that he can’t even be assed to properly lecture when Ancom makes an appearance, and instead just flips him off in a way he hopes comes across as respectable and dignified. 

Ancom doesn’t even blink. He makes a beeline for the electrical outlet, attempting to charge what looks like a small, brightly colored flashdrive- no, _vape,_ labelled _Melon Ice_ \- with the mangled end of a phone charger. Ancom is eyeing the frayed tips of the wires as though he might stick them in his mouth just to see what would happen, which wouldn’t be entirely out of character. 

“If only the rest of your people could electrocute themselves too.” Nazi sighs, popping the cracker into his mouth. 

“You’ve got a major stick up your ass today.” Ancom replies without looking up, waving the vape at him. 

Nazi tries for a wry chuckle, but it comes out as more of a wheeze _._

* * *

Much in the spirit of glamorous Old Hollywood starlets, Ancap is spoiled, beautiful, and easily bored. 

He has spent the last four-hundred-something years of his life cultivating a taste for debauchery that borders on _deranged,_ calling for a seemingly endless parade of business ventures, shell corporations, sweatshops, coked-out benders, and all manner of insane one-percenter bullshit that seems more like a manifestation of Commie’s worst nightmares than anything grounded in reality. There are islands. Strippers. Wives of dubious age and immigration status that no one gets to meet. 

Ancap is annoying. Utterly. Totally. _Quintessentially_ , in every sense of the word. He’s a needy, selfish, egotistical drama queen with loose morals and questionable priorities and a posh up-and-down lilt to his voice that grates on Nazi’s nerves like it was fucking specially designed in a lab to test his sanity. 

* * *

The problem, Nazi decides, is that Ancap is also stupid fucking _hot._

And it’s _horrible._

* * *

Now, he would like to make the distinction–

Just because he can acknowledge (and even, to some degree, _appreciate_ ) the objective, aesthetic appeal to Ancap’s features, it doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s _attracted_ to him. That would be absurd. Because despite all his primping and preening and fussing, Ancap is still technically a man. 

(But there is a lot to be objectively, aesthetically pleased by). 

Ancap is an all-american type of handsome. Ancap looks at Nazi like he wants to fuck him unconscious. Ancap is built lean and mean and graceful like some type of particularly vicious _ballerina,_ albeit with far worse posture, and Nazi knows for a fact that his entire body has been waxed smooth. He’s offensively tall, intolerably _slender,_ and his features have a sulky, expensive elegance to them that makes Nazi want to fucking vomit. Because he’s still so _trashy._

But he’s not the worst company. It isn’t saying much, but he’s significantly less of a pain in the ass than the leftists. Ancap doesn’t bother himself with matters that won’t affect his bottom line, and while it’s shallow, it’s given him an apathetic quality that makes him relatively easy to get along with. He can be charming when he wants to be, in a sleazy, calculated sort of way, but pleasant nonetheless. At the very least, the two of them get along better than the fucking leftists do— It seems like Tankie is always either babying Ancom, inadvertently pissing him off, or doing both at the same time. 

Nazi has never _liked_ anyone in the same way he likes Ancap. 

It’s a strange, stilted sort of thing. He likes him desperately one second, hates him the next, wants to be near him, wants to beat him over the head with that fucking cellphone, wants to learn everything about him and understand exactly what makes him so goddamn infuriating just so he can make it _stop_. 

Ancap seems so distant behind those sunglasses, lips pursed, tapping away on his phone. Perfectly inscrutable. 

Nazi almost wishes he were being drugged. It would be a lot easier to explain. 

* * *

_The first time Ancap fucked Nazi’s mouth it was far rougher than he expected._

_Or, more accurately: the first time Nazi got on his knees for Ancap, the whole process was far rougher than he expected, because Ancap decided to fuck his fucking mouth, the lunatic._

_When Nazi wants head he very rarely manages to outright_ _ask for it. He instead opts for a long and ridiculous series of surreptitious glances and subtle hints and small, miserable tugs to Ancap’s shirt sleeve while praying he gets the hint. He can’t bear to speak the words aloud. Ancap, on the other hand, has absolutely no trouble doing so, and chose to grab a fistful of his hair while asking if he wanted to ‘play Monica Lewinsky’._

_He felt oddly small and breathless bracketed in between Ancap’s legs, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, his own knees already aching against the carpet of the living room. His hands were trembling on the floor in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to reach out and touch Ancap’s slacks. If he couldn’t do that, he didn’t know how he was going to-_

_Ancap reached down tucked a stray lock of Nazi’s hair back with the others, his fingers brushing lightly against his forehead. Nazi couldn’t see the eyes behind his glasses, but he had the oddest sensation of being studied_ , _of being appraised by an expert._

_“You have such lovely blue eyes.” Ancap murmured._

_“Fuck you,” he spat on instinct, “Don’t look at me li-”_

_Ancap shoved two fingers into his mouth before he could finish the sentence. His hands were soft and tasted perfumey, like the expensive floral-scented moisturizer he left in all the bathrooms. Nazi was too surprised to be properly furious. Nazi was too fucking_ overwhelmed _, tears pricking in his eyes as Ancap hummed under his breath and forced his fingers as far back as they could go._

 _“And such a lovely mouth,” he continued, seemingly unperturbed as Nazi drooled around his hand and made a pathetic sort of gagging sound, “You’re quite the catch, Nazi! Or, uh, quite the_ _ü_ _bermensch. I’m sure there’s a market for it either way.”_

 _Nazi squeezed his eyes shut. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He could feel Ancap’s other hand gently tracing along his jawline and tilting his head back to further expose the pale line of his throat as if for examination, to properly watch Nazi fucking swallow_ _his own spit around his fingers._

_A small trail of saliva dripped down his chin. Ancap wiped it up with his thumb._

_Then he pouted, “I want to stick my dick in here, Nazi, is that okay? Can you do that for me?”_

_In lieu of a legitimate response, Nazi made some sort of needy, wet gurgle from deep in his throat that didn’t ultimately matter— because Ancap’s thumb pressed firmly under his chin, and then he used the hand in Nazi’s mouth to slowly nod his head up and down for him._

_“Ooh,” said Ancap, as posh and obnoxious as ever, “How polite. You wanna say please?”_

_Nazi gave a small, shuddering breath as Ancap withdrew the fingers from his mouth. It was almost hilariously sad that he’d tremble for a man who wore a fucking silk kimono to bed. His voice felt raw, “That is literally never going to happen.”_

_Ancap laughed, shrugged, and unzipped his fly. “Yes, I thought so. It was at least worth a shot.”_

_Nazi was so hard he thought he was going to fucking_ cry. _He tentatively shuffled forward, mouth wet, face hot, hands gripping Ancap’s suit pants for support. It gave him a quick, vengeful satisfaction to see them wrinkled. He could sense Ancap’s hand floating at the base of his skull and coaxing him forward, tickling the soft hair at the back of his neck. He was eye level with— oh, jesus christ, he could see the hard length of him stretching his boxer briefs._

_Nazi pressed a small, wet, open-mouthed kiss to his cock through his boxers. He could practically taste the fucking thread count._

* * *

He can admit that the evidence against him and his staunch heterosexuality is fairly damning. From an outsider’s perspective, he can imagine how his relationship with Ancap would come across. He’s not _delusional._

But, like, the thing is— he’s sure that has to be some room for flexibility during times of war. It’s an extenuating circumstance. Dry-humping Ancap on the couch is a far cry from sharing a desperate embrace with a dying comrade down in the trenches, fine, but it’s still the same general _idea_. He basically has a bulletproof excuse, so he doesn’t know why he should feel so heart-wrenchingly queasy when he thinks of things like blowjobs and yoga mats and the stock market. For this reason, he tries not to think about the things he wants to do, either. 

Ancap’s hand is laying six inches from his own across the mattress. He wants to reach out and touch it. He feels like he’s going to start vomiting up seawater. 

Instead, he pulls the covers up around himself and tries to tuck them into his lap a little neater. Nazi is wearing a button-up shirt that was once starched and ironed but has since been hopelessly wrinkled, his hat, his dress socks, and little else. He idly smooths out a rumple in the sheets. Ancap is lying next to him wearing nothing at all. Ancap’s room is nice. It smells like sandalwood and vanilla. 

“Andrew,” Nazi says. 

Ancap gives a noncommittal grunt. Nazi watches the languid motion of his wrist as he pencils in a letter on his crossword puzzle. It’s skinny. Sinewy. He wants to kiss the protruding knob of bone. 

“Andrew,” Nazi repeats, more forcefully. He reaches out and jostles his shoulder. 

Nazi’s stomach gives a terrible lurch as soon as Ancap rolls over. They’ve known each other for nearly a century but he’s still not used to the full force of his gaze without the shades. His eyes are a harsh shade of violet and his eyelashes are long and pale and sickly. It’s an unsettling reminder of how little human is really left in him. Nazi wonders what his human counterpart must have been like, back in the 17th century before he became an ideology. Nazi knows what James Reichmanger was like. He seriously doubts _Andrew J. Cappy_ is even Ancap’s real name. 

“Nyes?” Ancap says. Nazi cringes at the word and snaps out of his reverie. He swats at his shoulder. 

“Listen,” Nazi says. He’s trying to choose the words like he does when giving a speech, carefully sidestepping around anything incriminating, but they don’t seem to come as easily. “Recently, you and I have been doing a lot of different.... _things_. Together.” 

Ancap nods. Nazi takes a deep breath and continues. 

“Many different things. Unspeakable things, even. But you and I-” he falters, “We’re not- we’re not, like.... _gay_ , right?”

Ancap looks scandalized. Nazi can feel his face heating. He shouldn’t have said anything. Ancap’s eyes are beautiful. Nazi wants to kiss him sweetly under the moonlight with a hand shoved firmly down the front of his pants ( _no_ ). Nazi wants to murder someone. Nazi wants to murder Ancap, specifically. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling.” Ancap says, surprisingly serious, “I always made sure we kept our socks on, didn’t I?” 

Nazi squints at him. He doesn't see how that shit has anything to do with anything. 

* * *

The fact that Nazi’s even thinking about consulting their household’s resident connoisseur of degeneracy is proof that everything has gone to shit. 

Ancom’s room is best described as a ‘cave’. Nazi supposes calling it a ‘pit’ would also be accurate. He had thought Ancap’s room was a disaster the first time he saw it, but it’s nothing compared to the level of destruction Ancom has managed to wreak on every square inch of space not obscured by piles of laundry. There’s a thick carpet of empty chip bags, shattered glass, 6-packs of alcoholic kombucha, cassette tapes, piercing needles, dab carts, and other assorted lowlife detritus. It looks like a cross between an underground club in 1980s deutschpunk Berlin, a hollowed-out warehouse after a rave, and the underside of a bridge. There’s graffiti on the _windows._ On the motherfucking _ceiling fan._

Nazi clears his throat in the doorway to make his presence known. 

“Do you– ” He starts, and then coughs, composing himself. The room reeks of smoke. 

Ancom glances up from the small nest of blankets where he has buried himself, visible only by the light of his Nintendo Switch. “Holy shit, are you actually talking to me? Is the world ending?” 

Nazi can feel the beginning of a headache coming on, pulsing at the base of his skull. His eye twitches. “Socks.” He grits out, looking at Ancom expectantly. 

Ancom squints. “Like…. Programmer? Fuck, d’you want cat ears, too?” 

Nazi actually flinches. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, and he’d prefer to keep it that way. He thinks that Ancom can sense his discomfort, because his entire body perks up inside the dark room. It’s like a shark that just smelled blood. 

“Insinuate that I’m interested in your _perversions_ again, and–” Nazi pauses and takes a deep breath to compose himself, waving a flustered hand through the air. He’s so fucking discombobulated he forgets not to afford Ancom basic respect. “I- I’ve just– I was– forget it. Nevermind. I want no part in this. Goodbye. You– Good day.” 

“Oh, _I_ see.” Ancom says while he's halfway out the door. Nazi hates himself for pausing mid-stride. “Socks on means it’s not gay. It’s simple.” 

Nazi stops and looks back at him. Ancom is staring directly at him, searching his face with his eyes narrowed, eerily shrewd in a way Nazi doesn’t trust. He can’t see his mouth under the bandana, but he can tell Ancom is grinning like he knows something else that he’s not telling him. It’s unnerving. Nazi can never quite tell what’s going with quem. Him. Fuck. 

Ancom continues in the same cheerful, sing-song tone, “Now, I don’t know who or what you’re doing, but feet away equals not gay, dude! This is, like, _day one_ degenerate shit.” 

* * *

The lunches Ancap leaves for him in the fridge range from some of the most disgustingly trendy millennial atrocities he’s ever seen in his life to shockingly palatable, but they usually end up involving bullshit along the lines of activated charcoal and truffle oils and (god forbid) way too much fucking _soy._ The paper bags he leaves them in are deceptively nonthreatening. 

Nazi doesn’t enjoy the implication that he’s unable to make his own food, something of which he’s perfectly capable, thank-you-very-much, but he supposes Ancap performing domestic tasks isn’t the worst thing that could happen. Surely the role of homemaker is more befitting of him than of Nazi. 

He peeks into the paper bag. There’s a fancy-looking salad, some type of cold soup, and a little container of what looks like a shrimp cocktail. It’s all neatly squared away in purple tupperware. There’s almost no way Ancap actually went through the trouble of preparing it himself what with his track record of outsourcing menial tasks, but the idea of him doing so tugs on Nazi’s heartstrings more than he’d like to admit. 

He’d intended to repay the favor, but he didn’t do anything nearly as extravagant. He peeks at Ancap out of the corner of his eye— the man is reclining against the kitchen counter, idly scrolling on an iPad. 

Without taking his eyes off of him, Nazi slides the capitalist a cup of coffee in of the few mugs Ancom hasn’t chipped or broken. Ancap barely glances at it, face illuminated by his screen. Nazi briefly checks to make sure his socks are still firmly placed on his feet. 

“This is for you,” he says. 

Ancap jumps to attention with a loud, flamboyantly homosexual gasp. Nazi suddenly regrets ever having chosen to associate with him. 

“Oh REALLY, Nazi, you shouldn’t have!” Ancap gushes, scooping up the shitty cup of lukewarm coffee like there was nothing in the world he wanted more. The tendency to overreact is another one of Ancap’s many bizarre quirks, Nazi knows, but something about the way he’s downright _beaming_ at him sends his stomach into knots. He tries his damndest to smile back and the lower half of his face does something more resembling a postmortem spasm. It’s a start. 

Ancap takes a sip of the coffee and then the lower half of _his_ face contorts strangely too, like he’s waging an internal war against himself. He doesn’t swallow, knuckles straining white against the mug. 

Nazi blinks. “You don’t actually have to dr–” 

Ancap collapses and spits his mouthful into the sink before Nazi gets the words out. Literally full-body shivering, he turns and crumples against the counter panting like he finished running a marathon. His legs are sprawled out in front of him. Nazi didn’t know it was possible to have legs that long. If he had it his way, he thinks, legs like that would be illegal. 

“My _god,_ ” Ancap shudders, “I don’t know how you people manage that _swill_.” 

Nazi snorts, crossing his arms. “Oh, my apologies. What were you expecting? Something more befitting your delicate sensibilities?” 

Ancap sniffs, “I don’t drink coffee. I only drink the tears of the Colombian peasant farmers who picked the coffee beans,” he tilts his head to one side like he’s considering something, “and lean. But it was a nice gesture.” 

“I made it with tap water, too,” Nazi says, “None of your fancy bottled stuff.” 

Ancap dry heaves into the sink.

“In a perfect world, this display of weakness would be grounds for immediate execution,” Nazi says sympathetically, patting him on the back. 

* * *

(Later that day, Ancap pays him back for the coffee by cornering him against the bathroom counter. He seats Nazi on top of it and kneels down in front of him, slinging his legs over his shoulders in a way that makes Nazi feel absurdly tiny and exposed. 

His mouth is dry as Ancap strips him of his pants. “This is dege–” 

Ancap beats him to it. His tone is conversational and his grin is sharp. “You know, James, once people reach a certain tax bracket, they pay great sums of money to be as degenerate as possible.”) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it's baby's first centricide fic! AND there's cock! chaper 2 will probably be up by the end of the year lol. happy holidays jrao3 i love you all to death please let me know if u find a typo or something 
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets just pretend nazi found out he was jewish earlier on because it's more pleasant for me to write him that way 
> 
> it's crazy how nothing of significance happens in this chapter AT ALL but it's kind of nazi-heavy which I thought was refreshing. sorry if it's weird sounding i've been tired :-(

The silk slip-dress is a lavish, floating confection in a shade of light pink that can only be described with cloying, flowery terms like seashell or blush or blossom. The fabric is cool to the touch in a way that makes Nazi somehow feel more naked wearing it than not— it slides against his skin with the slightest movement, a constant reminder of what he’s doing and who’s doing it for. 

Nazi drags one of the flimsy spaghetti straps up his shoulder and wills himself to believe that this isn’t the way Ancap prettied up all of the other whores who came before him. Because that’s what they must have been, to willingly subject themself to the fucking pornographic circus funhouse that is Ancap’s bedroom. Whores. He doesn’t know what that makes him. 

Something different, surely. He wasn’t fidgeting on the edge of the man’s bed, presumably looking fucking absurd, legs neatly crossed at the ankle, out of some secret inner desire to be _had_. It was to be had, _specifically_ , by— 

Well. 

On second thought, harboring any desire to please the capitalist may arguably be worse than simple indecency. He carefully watches Ancap’s shoulders move underneath the thin layer of his button-up as he turns to place his champagne glass on the bedside table. Nazi’s eyes trace the sleek line of his back and then look away so quickly once Ancap returns his attention to him that he feels physically ill. 

Ancap’s shirt is undone and his hair is messy and he’s leaning too close with his hands on Nazi’s thighs and his tie hanging loose around his neck and, oh, Nazi can see himself reflected in the mirrored lenses of his shades. He looks big-eyed. Quivering. Silk dress, hairy legs, bony knees. It’s enough to make him more nauseous than he was before. He had criticized Ancap’s obsessive waxing of his body in the past for making him look like a woman, and the irony of his situation flickers briefly through his mind, for a moment. 

Ancap quirks his eyebrows up and, _fuck_ , Nazi forgot he was making eye contact while watching himself in his sunglasses. He squeezes his eyes shut as if that will somehow deliver him from the situation. 

His partner takes this as an invitation to flip him over face down on the mattress. Nazi shrieks and flings his arms out, pushing himself onto all fours. 

“Cute socks,” Ancap teases, like an asshole. The socks are literally another carbon copy of the plain black ones he wears every day. These ones have a hole by his big toe. Nazi opens his mouth to retort and then a hot hand is feeling up his ass through the thin silk of the dress and the wave of shame and fury and revulsion and arousal that hits him is so strong that he’s momentarily rendered speechless. 

Just when he regains his bearings, the hand moves up to directly between his shoulder blades. He hears Ancap give a small huff of displeasure from behind him, and then the hand presses down insistently until Nazi’s arms shake, once, and collapse underneath him, leaving his ass in the air. His lower back burns. He’s suddenly deeply grateful for all the yoga. 

Ancap leans down and grins right into his ear with one hand snaking up the inside of his thigh, “Oh, wow, I didn’t think you’d actually be that flexible. I’m jealous, honestly. Do you get a lot of practice?” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Nazi grits out, face squished against the mattess. And then once he realizes that isn’t entirely sufficient, “I- _Seriously_ , Ancap, this isn’t- I can’t- You can’t just treat me like your fucking _pocket sodomite_.” 

He wiggles indignantly, which he thinks undermines his point. 

Ancap’s hand stills. “I’m sorry,” he says, “What on earth did you just call yourself?”

Nazi flushes. “Shut up.” 

“No, no, no,” Ancap laughs, “Don’t get me wrong, I loved it. In fact, you’ve _aroused_ me, Nazi.”

He leans all the way down with his shirt hanging open, bare chest pressing flush against the exposed skin of Nazi’s back, and gives a fond little sigh. Then he turns his face into the crook of Nazi’s neck and fucking _smells_ him, which is creepy enough that it sends a legitimate shiver up his spine, cold and electric. The amount of skin to skin contact is making him dizzy. 

Ancap bunches the dress up around his waist and makes a horrible, doting sort of cooing sound. It’s so lovey-dovey that Nazi can’t tell if he’s making fun of him or not, and he stifles the sudden urge to whip his head around and furiously examine Ancap’s face for anything that might betray real emotion. He wishes the other man would take off his sunglasses. His face is burning against his nice cotton sheets. 

“You’d make the sweetest rental bride, wouldn’t you?” Ancap says in a tone so soft it’s almost reverent, then reaches out and pinches his middle, “I mean, look, you’ve got a dip in your waist right here like a girl.” 

“Listen to me, scum–” he starts, but Ancap cuts him off. He coos again right into his ear, “How much would it cost to let me bruise your cervix?” 

Nazi makes a stilted movement like he was going to put his head in his hands but settles for just burying his face into the nearest pillow. 

“I swear to Weimar and Evola and everything holy,” he says, voice shaking with equal parts fury and mysterious arousal he doesn’t yet want to acknowledge, “if you keep making juvenile fucking jokes I am going to get up and you won’t see me again. I’m GOING SOFT.” 

Ancap reaches around him and pokes his dick with one finger. “Liar,” he says. 

Nazi’s just glad the pillow is there to muffle his scream of rage. 

* * *

The only PlayStation being located in the middle of the living room is one of the more special types of psychological torture that Nazi has had to endure as long as the Centricide is still going on. He suspects the fact that he still has to put up with his housemates even when trying to enjoy his literal sole respite from their neverending bulllshit is one of the main reasons he’s been so susceptible to leftist pollution of the mind. 

There’s no escape, he thinks, but he has to remain strong. Expecting anything less would be weakness. Constant vigilance would distinguish him from his enemies, yes, and it would allow him to rise above them when the time came and they inevitably cracked. These are the thoughts that run through his mind as he boots up Dark Souls 3. 

Usually the worst part of the whole ordeal was that Ancom would squat by the sofa to wordlessly watch him play his games. Presumably he was waiting to pounce as soon as he heard a slur, but he never seemed to react more than an irritated huff when the time came, no matter how many Nazi hurled out. It probably shouldn’t piss him off half as much as it does, but the silent presence at his shoulder is so fucking disconcerting that he’d honestly prefer if Ancom caused a scene. He’s convinced the whole thing is a leftist psy-op to make him seem like the aggressor. 

So he flinches as soon as he hears footsteps approaching. He turns around prepared to start shouting, but it’s just Ancap. He sighs and turns back to his game. 

“If you try and molest me,” Nazi warns, “while I’m playing Dark Souls–” 

Ancap flings himself down on the couch next to him with a dramatic little flounce. “I wouldn’t dream of it!” 

But he reaches out with one of those outrageously long legs and intertwines it with one of Nazi’s, hooking his foot around his ankle. Then he leans back and fishes a bronze cigarette case out of his shirt’s front pocket, seemingly unperturbed as Nazi shoots him a disapproving look, and flips one into his mouth. 

It seems like Ancap is waiting for something. He keeps glancing idly at the front door, occasionally leaning back and blowing smoke up at the ceiling, but the two of them sink into a comfortable silence nevertheless. Nazi’s elbow keeps brushing against where their legs are pressed together. 

The lock clicks and Ancap bolts up. It’s a little spastic, what with how he was sprawled out seconds before. 

“TANKIE, COMRADE!” Ancap shouts before the poor fucking bolshie has even crossed the threshold.

He twists around, and grins over the couch at him. “What have you brought into my house? Spare alms for the poor? More bagels? How stale? I do hope you didn’t dig around for scraps out there. You don’t need to _rummage_ for food anymore now that you live with me, you know, I suppose it’s what you’re accustomed to, but I can call for takeout if you ask politely!” 

Nazi can legitimately feel Commie’s eye twitch from across the room. He’s holding two armfuls of groceries that the rest of them were too lazy to remember, despite the fact that it’s not even his turn for that particular chore. In fact, Nazi suspects that it might have been Ancap’s fault the shopping had been neglected that week. Commie’s even using Ancom’s stupid reusuable tote bags. He sways on the spot for one second with the effort of keeping his composure. 

Ancap looks very pleased with himself. Nazi barely manages to disguise his laugh at Ancap’s stupid smug face as a cough into his elbow. With that, Commie’s gaze flickers to where Nazi’s legs are tangled with the capitalist’s. He blinks as though he doesn’t know what he’s seeing. 

“I will not dignify this with response, Kulak,” Commie shakes his head, and marches off to the kitchen with decidedly longer strides than usual. 

Nazi looks back at Ancap, who sighs contentedly and stabs his cigarette out against the glass top of the side table. 

“One day, that man is going to tear you limb from limb,” Nazi informs him, “and you better not come crying to me when you get the bullet.” 

Ancap smiles, shrugs, and stretches his arms above his head for apparently no other reason than to show off the exaggerated gangle of his limbs. “I’m shaking in my Louboutins.” 

* * *

The anarchists are the oldest among the four of them by a fairly insignificant margin considering how long they’ve all been alive, but it’s still easy to forget with how effortlessly they adapted to the times. Ancap– and, though he denies it, Ancom– both embody the gross, unchecked hedonism of the 2010’s that Nazi loathes so very much. They revel in it, with their goddamn imaginary genders and Twitter accounts that somehow manage to exist for months and months on end without getting suspended, once again proving that free speech is on the way out as long as the mainstream media is still controlled by (((the–

Nazi pauses before he can complete the mental parentheses. On some days the small Star of David that sits on his chest feels heavy as though it will press through his clothes and leave a hot mark on skin. Most days, though, he forgets that it’s there. 

Controlled by him. The mainstream media was controlled by people like him. 

Nazi is the proverbial baby of the group and he still has one foot stuck in the 20th century. He supposes that all four of them are in some way products of their times, but he doesn’t think his housemates ache for the past in the same way that he does. Commie has a healthy respect for history and is particularly fond of getting shit-faced drunk and loudly recounting grand, semi-plausible feats of human strength and resilience performed by his comrades on the battlefield, buoyed by hope and communist spirit, in a booming voice that quickly devolves into incoherent Russian. Nazi suspects that might be the difference between them. The rest of them reminisce. Nazi _lingers_. 

There was a clarity of purpose back then that he finds himself missing, a feeling of strength he could draw from the established order of things, a list of wants and goals and methodologies that were neatly defined and laid plain before him like his pressed uniform in the mornings. He was formidable, then. He wasn’t whining about Twitter bans and instructing Ancom on the appropriate amount of detergent to use when doing the laundry. 

For a brief moment in the past, the world showed him exactly what he was fighting for– traditional values, ethnic pride, ethnic _purity_ – and he was there to watch it all crumble. The world gave way to effeminate beta cucks and drooling, brainless e-girls before he knew what had happened. Nazi had never gotten his chance to settle down with a blushing, rosy-cheeked wife and start a bloodline. He had only ever known resentment. 

Then again, he didn’t know who he was back then, not really. He had always been tall and blonde and handsome in the most conventional sense, with a shiny, clean-cut newness about him and conduct that bordered on puritanical. He was a poor, well-spoken little orphan with German blood and a sharp intelligence, who deferred easily to authority and lived and breathed the fascist doctrine with a near-religious fervor. James Reichmanger was born for the uniform. 

James Reichmanger was also half Jewish, though he didn’t know it. 

He can’t long for the Third Reich in the same way he used to. There are swastikas decorating the walls of his bedroom that he can’t bear to take down. And yet, still, however better off he may have been for never having met her, he hates the idea that he might have sent his mother to the camps without knowing it. 

Or, he would hate the idea if he let himself. 

* * *

Luckily for him, Ancap isn’t one for dwelling on the past. 

(But he has quite a lot of past to dwell on.) 

Technically the oldest by a good two centuries, things have always sort of seemed to shake out for him. It’s probably why he seemed so lackadaisical about the Centricide to begin with. Sure, he was as extreme as the rest of them, but he always spent an awful amount of time flouncing around the librights instead of working towards tangible change, and it gave the impression that he didn’t give too much of a fuck. He has good reason not to be as worried as the rest of them– the most he’s ever had to complain about are fucking _taxes_. 

And Tankie. But that’s to be expected. 

Ancap is and would always be a spineless coward. This is a universal constant up there with gravity, as far as Nazi is concerned, so he couldn’t quite understand why the capitalist had never seemed frightened about the war outside of the possibility of basic bodily injury. 

( _He had asked him once about what he would do if the war didn’t end in their favor._

_“I’m like a cockroach,” Ancap said, leaning onto the back two legs of his chair and spreading his arms wide, “Shiny and indestructible.”_

_“That sounds accurate,” Nazi had said. He couldn’t resist leaning over and jostling Ancap’s shoulder, nearly toppling him to the floor, “You’re both easily crushed under my boot.”_ ) 

When pressed, Ancap tells Nazi about his life as a newly minted ideology in the 1600’s, long before he tacked on the _anarcho_ \- and started stockpiling cryptocurrency. As far as Nazi can tell, court life involved lots of fripperies and fobs and poofery and pastries and many ridiculous, pompous affectations that he hasn’t yet managed to drop. He’s traded the powdered wigs and snuff-boxes for rocket launches, spray tan, and pharmaceutical drugs, but Nazi doesn’t think his voice has changed much since the palace of Versailles. 

Over brunch, he talks about the torrid flings he used to have with ‘Good Old Mercantilism’, who was– as he described her– a voluptuous British burlesque dancer who glowed a vivid shade of magenta and stood even taller than him. 

Ancap gives a wistful sigh. “This was, of course, before her poor, dear heart gave out. And then the yellow was _my_ idea.” 

Again, Nazi wonders who he started as. It seems the most likely that Ancap would have been some sort of prince or pirate or particularly greedy aristocrat, but Nazi finds himself wanting to believe he pulled himself up by the bootstraps like he’s always recommending others do. But then, it was practically impossible to picture him as a poor street urchin or something of the like. He was almost comically suited to the gentry. 

“AND TAMMANY HALL,” Ancap loudly bemoans, “now _that_ was a blast. At least until the goddamn _progressives_ –” 

“Still bitter?” 

“Don’t you talk to _me_ about grudges. When was fucking Normandy?” 

* * *

Whenever Commie actively seeks him out, it’s usually because he and Ancom got into their bi-weekly blowout fight and he doesn’t want to admit the silent treatment is making him lonely. This is all well and good, but it’s kind of excruciating trying to go about his fucking day with a stoic Soviet hovering in the corners of his vision trying and failing not to look utterly and transparently forlorn. 

This time Nazi is approached while he’s waging a war of his own on their communal kitchen. It’s proving a surprisingly difficult task– he thought it could be tackled in an afternoon with rubber gloves and a spray bottle of Ancom’s organic hippie Lemon Verbena Cleaning Solution, but there are mysterious burn marks and stubborn brown stains littering the walls and countertops and tiled floor. It’s not a hard guess as to who’s fault these are. 

There was a disgusting amount of rot on the wall behind the fridge, the type that smells sickly sweet and was visibly slimy. Gelatinous, even. Eradicating this took up the majority of his time. He used context clues to piece together that Ancom’s idea of fun was tossing half-eaten bananas on top of the fridge, the resulting gunk overflowing down the back of it. He can’t fathom what Commie must see in him. 

“Comrade,” says Commie, from the kitchen island. His massive body is dwarfing the little stool he’s sitting on. Nazi braces himself for another conversation along the lines of _You know I am having modicum of respect for you as fellow authoritarian, yes? We are having our compromises in the past, you and I_ and mentally runs through his usual responses. 

Commie surprises him. “You are spending lot of time with Kulak,” he says, “This I do not advise.” 

That’s enough to give Nazi pause. He slowly lowers his rag from where he was about to attack a strangely shaped brown stain on the fridge, turning around to face him. 

“I do not trust him,” Commie continues, “He is like viper– but not, like, _cool_ desert viper, with–” Commie makes a vague hand gesture around his mouth that clarifies nothing, “impressive fangs and whatnot. He is slimy, blind, wriggling thing you find on underside of large rock.” 

Despite his theoretical immortality, Nazi is convinced that a year is taken off of his life every time he has to hear one of the Soviet’s strange metaphors. He raises one eyebrow, visibly unimpressed. “Please tell me the word you are so desperately searching for isn’t ‘ _worm_ ’.” 

Commie gives a sudden shout of a laugh that makes Nazi jump, and slams one hand down on the kitchen counter in apparent, inexplicable merriment. 

“Ha!” he says, “No, I am saying what I mean most precisely. But worm is like small viper, no? Is same difference, but worm helps fertilize soil and till farmland for my people. Worm is at least comrade who knows true sense of community.” 

This conversation is reminding Nazi for the umpteenth time why he avoids talking to the leftists. It’s like stumbling through a dark woods with no sign of an exit and trying not to walk headfirst into trees. He briefly contemplates spraying Commie in the eyes with the cleaning solution as some sort of tactical diversion so he can make an escape. 

Commie continues undaunted, “What I mean to be saying is this– Unlike common earthworm, Ancap is not so useful. He is parasite, through and through.” 

Nazi cautiously sets his cleaning supplies down, “He’s quite insufferable, yes.”

Commie looks pleased, “Da.” 

And then Nazi scowls. 

“Hold on,” he says, placing his hands on his hips, “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I can’t believe that I’m _deigning_ to have this conversation, more like, because it’s honestly _embarrassing_ to listen to you. You barely even fucking talk to him but no, please, go on, tell me about how Big Bad Ancap hurts your imaginary workers’ _feelings_. He, what, heckles you from a distance every other week? Oh, that sounds _intolerable_. I put up with that man’s shit on a daily basis, and you don’t know the fucking HALF of it, Commie, do you? Can you get that through your little diminutive Slavic excuse for a brain? If you are going to insult him, I want to hear real _violence_ behind it. Seriously. HAVE SOME SELF RESPECT.” 

He only realizes that he’s yelling after the words have left his mouth. He’s glad that he set down the cleaning supplies because he’s certain he would have squeezed that bottle until it burst, which is something else he can add to his list of things doesn’t want to unpack. 

Commie, to his credit, doesn’t seem too bothered by his outburst. He had opened and closed his mouth several times like a fish, but now he’s just looking at Nazi in a very strange and oddly familiar way.

“You are.... not liking it….when I speak ill of your…. of Ancap, then?” Commie’s smile is still uncomfortably familiar, tone sympathetic like he’s reaching down to pet a silly puppy, “Nazi, he is my mortal enemy of last two centuries.” 

Suddenly, Nazi recognizes that look on his face. It was the same one he gave when he saw them curled up on the couch together. The realization hits him like a fucking bus and his face starts heating. 

“That’s not–” Nazi squeaks, “I didn’t mean– _I’m_ not– He– It wasn’t that, sort of– I just, I just– _We always kept our socks on._ ” 

Commie stares at him like he’s legitimately lost his mind. Nazi doesn’t blame him. He briefly curses every higher power he can think of and also himself for ever listening to anything an anarchist has ever told him. 

“I am going to make you hot nettle tea,” Tankie says, clearly concerned. 

Nazi sighs and puts his face in his hands. “That’s probably for the best.” 

* * *

Ancom accosts him as soon as he enters the hallway. He’s pissed at Commie, but apparently not pissed enough to stop eavesdropping on all of his conversations. 

“Awww,” Ancom grins at him, bringing his hand up to his forehead in an obnoxious salute, “it’s so nice to see you defending the hubby’s honor, you old softie!” 

Nazi just looks at him. 

Ancom slowly lowers his hand. “Hey now,” he says, “I didn’t mean– _TANKIE HE’S GONNA HIT ME!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is turning out so much longer than i thought it was going to so. eyes peeled for chapter 3 babes
> 
> if you reading this I LOVE YOU. YES YOU SPECIFICALLY. <3 <\-- THAT'S FOR YOU. 
> 
> if you comment I will cry and if you find a typo or something ill kiss you on the lips


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